


Waiting

by whataloadofolddosh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Carver Hawke/OFC, Carver Hawke/Original Female Character - Freeform, Dragon Age II - Freeform, F/M, Grumpy people running around Kirkwall, Merrill deserves all the protection in the world, Minor Marian Hawke/Merrill, OFC - Freeform, Original Female Character - Freeform, Someone save this bunch of idiots from themselves, Varric is everyone's drunk uncle, carver hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataloadofolddosh/pseuds/whataloadofolddosh
Summary: She was an apostate mage that had been resurrected from the dead by a Ferelden witch and sent to Kirkwall to guide the person that would become the Champion of the city.She was a smuggler, she could shoot an arrow blind from fifty feet and she was going to punch Carver Hawke if he opened his mouth one more time.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this rubbish bag that's been on fire in my mind for the past month. Not beta-d so very likely full of mistakes (sorry).

She had been dead when Flemeth came for her. 

Not by darkspawn, although when her blood was seeping into the floor of her family home the clock was ticking on when they’d next start crawling out of the ground. Debt collectors, she guessed, a combination of reckless spending by her father and a poor choice of mercenaries to loan money from. He’d kept it very well hidden, she thought. She wasn’t even sure if her mother had known it was going on.

Mother. It still ached a little to say the word. She’d been good and kind, fiercely protective of her family and with a fondness for gently pulling on her husband’s ears if he ever got too cheeky with her, which was all the time. The years had crept by, added wrinkles and strands of grey hair, but they’d still moon over each other like newlyweds. 

Her father had been born and raised in the Ferelden countryside, the third son of a farming family. Honest, working people who had shaped him into a good man that knew right from wrong and cared little for the world beyond the horizon. His days were filled with backbreaking work and a home full of laughter.

Her mother however, was the illegitimate child of a slave and a powerful magister in Tevinter, and a talented mage herself. She had been bundled onto a boat when she was barely two days old, a desperate attempt by her own mother to save her from a life of servitude, and one that had likely got her killed. The captain of the ship’s wife had been an elf, with contacts in a Dalish clan. She was no threat to the Keeper or their First, being human and so they’d kept her, taught her how to use her magic, to work with nature to get what she needed and in turn she had gained the trust of (most) of the Dalish. When she was 18 she had left, for those who had furiously protested her arrival as a helpless babe had been growing more mutinous as she reached adulthood. From there, she had wandered into a small Ferelden village and signed on as a barmaid. One night a farmer had come in with his three sons to celebrate a good harvest, the youngest one blushing and stumbling over his words as he ordered a drink from her. The rest, as they say, was history.

Typically, she didn’t realise until it was all over how lucky she had been, to have the parents and the life that she had had. The farm was hard, but rewarding most of the time. Their home had been small but there was always food on the table and money to fix holes in the roof during the rainy season. And when the magic had flared up in her soul on her ninth birthday, rolling off the end of her fingertips in waves that smelled like soil after rain and causing the flowers on the windowsill to grow three times their natural size, her parents had smiled, and celebrated their talented daughter. 

She knew they had disagreed over whether to send her to the Circle. As far as her Andrastian father was concerned, when mages were discovered they were taken to the Circle and never seen again. This was how it had been done in his lifetime, his parent’s lifetime and his grandparent’s lifetime. She knew he would rather have fallen on his own sword before sending her away from him forever but this was simply what was done. But the concept was unthinkable to her mother, who was from two worlds where magic was a gift and something to be treasured and nurtured, although she had not been able to use it freely since she left the Dalish. She had flat out refused to send her child to the Circle and her husband, half in agreement, half nervous about the look in her eyes and what she might do if he fought her, acquiesced.

So, she had stayed, and been taught in secret by her mother how to harness her skills, how to fight against the demons that plagued her sleep. Their magic was of a strange kind, her father often joking about what happened when Tevinter skill met Dalish teaching. Everything they did was harnessed by nature and used in harmony with it. By the time she was 12, she could bring an entire river out of its bed and hold it above her head. At 14, a snap of her fingers and trees would pull up from the ground at her feet, limbs appearing from the soil until oaks stood fifty feet above her head, looking for all the world like they had been there for a thousand years. Mages in the Circle learned by studying books and scripture, then practising in safe environments. Her magic, like her mother’s, was wild and untamed. But as she grew, so did her power, and she could see the concern on her parent’s faces. The more powerful she was, the more likely the Templars would find her and kill her parents for keeping her from them. So, when she was 16, it was decided that she could no longer use her magic outside the house, and even then she could only use any excess power that was simmering under her skin, to stop it boiling over and damaging herself or others. The next morning, her father had placed a bow in her hands.

“It’s too dangerous to use your magic to protect you. Most mages don’t ever learn how to fight beyond using their magic, why would they?” her mother had said. “But if you can master the bow, you can hide your magic, and protect yourself, a little easier.”

“Make it instinctive.” Her father had repeated constantly. “If you feel in danger, don’t reach for your magic, reach for your bow.” 

She had wanted to protest, have a temper tantrum like she used to when she was a child. But she and her mother had watched from the window when the Templars marched through town on their way back to the Circle, a child crying for their parents in tow. Her father’s face would be pale for hours and he would always stay in the fields late on those days, turning the soil over and over until he was bent double with exhaustion.

So she hadn’t protested. She had taken the bow and painstakingly mastered it, repressing her magic until she could almost ignore it. It hummed under her skin always, but only flared up only when she veered too close to one end or the other of the emotional spectrum. So, she also worked on controlling her emotions. Her mother sat with her for hours on end, teaching her tricks that the Dalish used, because for all their magic was wild in nature they still kept it perfectly controlled. As time went by, it became easier. Even the sadness at hiding who she really was dulled with time. And if her arrows always seemed sharper, or faster, or stronger than should have been possible, and her bow surviving even the worst scrapes and falls, they never commented on it. 

So when the mercenaries came in the middle of the night, she reached for her bow first. And it was only after she saw her parents killed and felt a blade slide across her own throat, that she let it go. 

She still didn’t know why Flemeth came for her, or how she revived her. Perhaps she had a destiny. Perhaps her magic had reached out across the void and called to anyone that would listen. It was also equally as likely that the witch thought it would be an amusing story, or that she had nothing better to do. 

Morrigan told her that she was like a block of wet clay when she woke up, closer to a Tranquil than a human mage who had been brought back from the dead, who just sat and stared at the table. She didn’t speak, she ate whatever they put in front of her through muscle memory alone, and it wasn’t until her memories started to appear through the fog in her mind then she found she could hold onto an image or a feeling, and it would stay in her grasp. Then, the gates opened in her mind again and she almost drowned under the pain and loss of memory.

They had pulled her out of it and made her stay with them. She wasn’t especially grateful, she knew Flemeth would exact repayment at some point and it was likely her death would go hand in hand with it. But she was alive, for what it was worth. At least she didn’t have to hide her magic anymore, they lived too far out in the Wilds for Templars to come knocking, and Flemeth’s permanent position as the subject of legends told to children gave them an odd kind of privacy. Flemeth remarked that the Wilds had never looked so pretty once she had been unleashed upon them, although that was hardly their purpose. She practiced, learning from the two women she lived with (for although they were terrifying they were certainly talented) and honing her skill to become a mage her mother would have been proud of. 

Yet she couldn’t bear to put aside the bow her father had taught her to yield. It was still her first choice of weapon, and she knew her skill was on par with the King’s finest archers, although it was hardly a point of pride given that she mostly used it to kill meat for dinner. Any other free time was spent cooking, exploring the Wilds and exchanging mild barbs with Morrigan. The two women were strange, they moved and spoke with a proud purpose, as if they were called to a higher destiny than a hut in the middle of a forest. But they never spoke of plans to leave, or do anything beyond the mundane day to day. She didn’t question them about it, frankly she tried to speak to them as little as possible. Most days she spent outside, practising either with a bow or with her hands. She had never learned how to use a staff, and refused Morrigan’s offer to teach her how to use one. She didn’t need an instrument to help channel her power, she was skilled enough without it and she still balked a little at the idea of something that so openly identified her as a mage.

Life continued, despite her jagged broken heart that pierced muscle everytime she breathed, and almost two years passed with the three living under one roof. She wasn’t part of their family, she was indebted to them and waiting for them to collect. She was reminded of that every time she looked at her reflection and saw the scar that matched the path the dagger had cut across her throat. So when Flemeth came to her and told her she must leave them and go to Kirkwall, she was not surprised. 

“Someone will be arriving there, someone who has a destiny far greater than ours.” The old woman had told her, watching her pack worn scraps of clothing into a leather bag. “You must go. Set yourself up as a familiar face in the town, it doesn’t matter how. When they come, and they will, you will know them. Watch over them, become a part of their company, keep them on the right path to fulfil the fate that has been set out for them.”

“How will I know what the right path is?”

“You will know. Make sure they stay on it.”

An unhelpful answer, but not surprising.

“You must go soon. Soon the darkspawn will overrun these lands and you’ll have to contend with a thousand other Fereldens trying to escape this place.”

“I will go now.”

“Good.”

They did not say goodbye to each other, there was nothing to say. She was just a tool to Flemeth, one that had been sharpened into a useful shape and was now being sent out into the world to fulfil its purpose. She nodded at the two women, stood in the doorway of their hut then turned and began the long journey to the harbour, without looking back.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trash, still on fire.

“Naeve!”

She looked up. Moving towards her across the Gallows Courtyard was Athenril. They clasped forearms briefly, then the elf folded her arms and scanned the crowd around them. It was busy, had been every day for the past six months at least, as more and more Ferelden refugees arrived seeking shelter from the Blight. At least her journey had been relatively smooth, most of those arriving had blank eyes, clutching what little they’d managed to grab before leaving their homes with trembling, bony hands, met with stony faces and guards that wouldn’t let them beyond where she stood currently. Her heart panged. These people needed warmth and comfort but unless they knew someone in the city who would vouch for their right to be there then they were unlikely to get it anytime soon. 

“Nice to see you in daylight for once.” Athenril remarked, eyes still moving across the crowd. She was clearly looking for someone. Naeve didn’t know who, when the boss told you to be somewhere at a certain time you were there, no questions asked.

“You’re the one that put me in charge of the night shifts.”

The other woman shrugged. “You’re my second in command, and the only one I trust not to fuck any movements up. Of course I’m going to put you in charge of something.”

The lout she’d brought with her, Harric, grunted slightly. He’d been with the smugglers for going on six years now, more than double the time Naeve had, and he was still smarting over the fact that she’d been bumped up before him. She didn’t think much about it. Harric was an idiot that never got the figures right and didn’t have the ability to move silently, Athenril only kept him around because he was pretty to look at and a good way for her to relieve tension after a stressful day. 

“Why are we here, boss?” He said.

“Meeting two potential new members of the family.” She replied, not pausing her examination of the people around them. “You know Gamlen Hawke?”

Naeve snorted. “Please tell me you’re not conscripting him to pay off his debts.”

“All the gold in Hightown couldn’t convince me.” Athenril said, “He’s gambled all his family money away. Owes some to the Red Irons as well as us and he’s only got the money to cover one set of debts. I’ve heard his sister and her kids are running here from Ferelden, expecting a huge mansion and some serious power behind the Hawke name. Apparently they used to be big around here but Gamlen ran that into the ground years ago. He’s promised the kids to one of us for a year to work and pay off what he owes.”

“Heartwarming.”

She nodded. “They get to pick apparently. So we’ll either get our money back or two new pairs of hands. Everybody wins.”

“Except the kids. I’m surprised you didn’t just demand the money from him, sounds like he’s selling his family into servitude and I know how you feel about that.”

The elf shrugged. “They could always kill him if it bothers them that much. Honestly the man’s more trouble than he’s worth now, at least this way we might get something.”

“You have such a good heart, Ath.”

“Here they are.”

Athenril turned to face Naeve, jutting her chin towards a corner of the courtyard. Gamlen Hawke was striding across it, arms open wide like a bloody spirit of mercy. Naeve curled her lip, the man was as slimy as they come. She was taking it as a personal insult that he’d been able to get away with racking up debts for so long, because he was so fucking bad at everything he did yet somehow got away with it. She watched as a woman ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. She looked exhausted and old, but was probably younger than she appeared. Encounters with darkspawn tended to age you early. 

“The sister.” She muttered and Athenril nodded. The two watched as Gamlen tried to untangle himself from her grip. Behind her stood three others, all looking like they needed a week of sleep.

“Two of those could be our new best friends.” The elf said quietly. “I’m guessing the two with dark hair, they look like Hawkes. Not sure who the redhead is but she looks too righteous to want to join up with either smugglers or mercs.”

Naeve couldn’t disagree. The woman with fiery orange hair and muscles so defined she could see them across the courtyard looked like she was overflowing with a sense of justice. But the two with dark hair looked too much like each other, and their mother, to be anything but Hawkes. They were hardly kids however. They must have been around her own age, if not older. The woman was tiny, almost elven in figure, with thick hair plaited down her back and hanging over her waist. Her eyes were large and green, haunted and set deep into her head below brows that were shaped in a way that made her look mousy and worried. Naeve sucked some air in through her front teeth when she saw the staff strapped to her back. A mage. Kirkwall was not a good place for a mage to be right now, the woman would have to be careful if she didn’t want to get dragged off by Meredith’s dogs. Other than that, she looked capable enough. Worn armor, but there was power in her stance. She reached out to touch the shoulder of the man next to her, her brother, if Athenril’s information was correct 

But the man jerkily wrenched his shoulder out of reach. Naeve raised an eyebrow. His sister looked almost harmless. It was hard to imagine that she’d done anything to incur a wrath like that. He on the other hand looked like a moody teenager, shoulders   
bending forward and hunched under his ears, whether it was from the weight of the huge greatsword on his back or from his general fury at everything around him was hard to tell. He was tall and broad, with a face that was defined and strong, undeniably handsome, but he looked like he was about to have a temper tantrum.

The smugglers watched as Gamlen told the younger Hawkes that he’d signed them into service for a year. The woman just looked tired and the young man, if possible, seemed even moodier at the news. Then he raised his arm, pointed in the general direction of Athenril, then swung his arm and pointed in the opposite direction, where Meeran stood with a couple of his thugs, trying and failing to look like they weren’t watching every move Gamlen made. Bloody mercenaries. There was an art to smuggling, to manipulating society to move cargo about. No line of work in Kirkwall was completely clean but at least Athenril kept her business as ethical as possible.

As it turned out, they didn’t need to bother coming in the first place. The group marched straight for Meeran and his thugs without a look back and signed on with them immediately. Athenril wasn’t too bothered, as Gamlen trotted over and gingerly handed Harric the pouch of coins like he thought the man would bite him. And if her boss didn’t care, then Naeve didn’t either.

Ten months later she was crouched on a rooftop in Lowtown with Athenril, watching Marian and Carver Hawke take down a gang patrol in one of the most impressive and skilful displays of calculated violence that she’d ever seen.

The elven smuggler swore under her breath. “I’d heard Hawke had a reputation for being a good fighter but this…”

Naeve had heard the gossip in the taverns too. The eldest Hawke child, Marian, one of if not the most powerful fighters in the whole of Kirkwall, who also happened to be so kind and friendly that half the residents of Lowtown happily owed her a drink (closest thing to a miracle Naeve had seen in her four years in the city). She was Meeran’s favourite, although they constantly fought apparently, as his methods weren’t quite to her taste. Not hard to believe, Meeran was a grumpy pig who didn’t care about anything he couldn’t earn money from or hit. She hadn’t heard anything about the brother beyond learning his name, that he stuck to his sister like fly on shit, and that he was constantly miserable and unpleasant to be around. She’d had sex with one of Meeran’s gang a few months ago and they’d completely ruined the afterglow by whining about Carver Hawke. It hadn’t made her particularly keen on knowing him any better. 

“Impressive.” Naeve agreed. “Their year of bound service to Meeran will be up soon, did you want me to pitch the illustrious career of smuggling to them?”

“I think it’s too late for that.” Athenril replied. “You know Bartrand?”

“Varric’s horrible brother?”

“That’s the one. He’s doing some expedition to the Deep Roads apparently, riches beyond your wildest dreams and all that. I’ve heard the Hawkes are keen to get involved. Not sure why, you couldn’t pay me enough to venture down there. My guess is they’re trying to get enough to buy their old mansion in Hightown back, you know the one?”

Naeve did. An impressive building, but wildly overgrown and abandoned. Every time she went near the place she could feel her magic itching to make things grow from the abandoned gardens. A couple of times while watching guard movements across Hightown, she’d seen the Hawke woman stood outside the old abandoned family mansion, staring at it in the dark. She snorted. “Good luck to them. I hope they’ve got the money to satisfy the greedy bastard.”

She asked Varric about it later, when they were sat in his rooms in the Hanged Man. You couldn’t move anything around Kirkwall without Varric Tethras knowing about it, and it was hard not to like the dwarf. He was the perfect mix of friendly uncle and ruthless businessman. The two had been friends for years, since one of her first jobs for Athenril when they’d met. Or to be more accurate, she’d heard a movement in the dark alley behind her while she was waiting for a contact and reacting purely on instinct, had swung around, arrow nocked in her bow and ready. She’d found herself staring at one of the oddest crossbows she’d ever seen, with a bolt loaded and ready to be fired right between her eyes. In the shadows behind it, Varric had moved out of the shadows and introduced himself as her contact.

They’d kept running into each other on jobs after that. Naeve had wondered whether it had been intentional on his side. She was very clearly not a local (although who was, in this city), and the scar on her neck that she’d long stopped trying to hide had given her a bit of a reputation within the circles they both moved in. Assassin from Tevinter, spy from Ferelden’s court, necromancer’s escaped thrall, she’d heard it all. She always smiled and brushed the questions off when anyone did bring it up, what was she going to do, tell them the truth? But it had been more than enough to interest the dwarf, who seemed to subsist purely on wine and stories. As time passed, they’d become drinking companions and close friends.

“Afraid you’re right Ebras,” he said, leaning forward to fill up her goblet. “Bartrand won’t let anyone near his so-called expedition unless they’ve got enough money to satisfy him.”

“So-called?”

Varric raised his hands, turning his palms so they faced the ceiling. “He doesn’t have half of the information he needs and trust me the only way he’ll think of things like maps and the reality of moving around in darkspawn infested halls is if someone comes to him with that information ready.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And that person’s going to be you?”

“Me, or someone I know.” He shrugged. “Do you fancy coming along for the ride?”

Naeve laughed. “Deep Roads? Not my thing. But thank you for the very kind invitation.”

He toasted her. “Well let me know if you change your mind, now you’re on the night shifts for Athenril we never get to fight together anymore. I think I might speak to those Hawkes everyone’s losing their damn minds over. They’ve got the balls for it, no question, and they need the money. When their year with Meeran’s up I’ll speak to them. Now, enough with the shop talk.” He regarded her over the rim of his goblet. “What stories have you got for me this evening? Dare I dream that tonight I might finally hear the story of the scar?”

“Not until you tell me the story behind Bianca. Can I instead tempt you with a tale of a movement of goods gone wrong, involving three mages, the city guard and surprisingly, a rogue nug?”

The dwarf chuckled. “I’ll get that story out of you one day, Ebras. But a rogue nug is acceptable compensation for the wine. For now.” 

She dreamed of her parents when she finally got home that night. Nothing specific, just faces and feelings that demons pushed to her through the fog to tempt her into their arms, but it was enough for her to wake before dawn, pillow damp with tears she’d   
shed while unconscious and an unsteadiness to her breath. For minutes she lay motionless, eyes shut against the breaking day and breathing slowly and steadily. In and out, in and out, just like Mother had taught her. She hadn’t dreamt of them in a long time. Thought about them nearly every day, but that was different, less raw and painful as time went on. The dreams caught her unawares when she was vulnerable, and hit harder as a result. Made her feel like a child that had never experienced any kind of pain or loss. Naeve huffed a breath and swung her legs over the cot that served as her bed. She was not a child anymore. 

There was a small mirror on the table. Looking into it was like looking at an image of her mother. Dark skin, amber eyes, black hair that hung perfectly straight to just past her collarbones and brows thick and heavy. Her father had had the same eyebrows. She delighted in her appearance. Not because of how pleasing it was to look at or how others may or may not feel about it, but because it visibly tied her to her parents and kept their image strong in her mind, those good people that had loved so much and died too soon.

Tears were swimming in her eyes again and she put the mirror down hard on the table. Enough now, she told herself, enough.

As she washed and readied for the day her mind wandered, as it often did, to the reason for her coming here. Flemeth had said she would know this person when they came and that she was bound to become their companion, help them stick on the right path. When she’d first arrived, she’d overanalysed every conversation she’d had, every person she met, to see if they were the one. But no one seemed right and as the weeks slipped into months and years, she had grown less paranoid. She had found work that put her in contact with people all over the city and still she had not found them. The witch had never been helpful at giving timeframes. Once she had told Morrigan to go out and not return until she had found a specific herb that Flemeth needed for a spell. What she hadn’t mentioned was that the herb grew in one very specific place at a specific time of the month. Morrigan had been gone for four months before finally coming back, stormy faced with rage crackling around her. Thus, Naeve wasn’t too worried. It could be another ten years before she was called upon. 

But it was only a few months later, when she was again drinking with Varric in his rooms that she realised. He was regaling her of his journey to the Dalish clan on the outskirts of Kirkwall with Hawke, her brother and the ginger woman Naeve had seen in the Gallows Courtyard. Aveline she was called, and apparently her first impression of the woman had been correct. The city guard had never been so on form, or difficult to navigate around. 

“Then we get to the top of this mountain, Hawke pulls out this amulet she’d promised to carry over from Ferelden and before you could blink, a witch was standing in front of us.”

If she had not been a rogue and a smuggler, used to being frozen in one place for hours at a time and showing zero emotion in her dealings with the gangs, she would have flown out of her chair. She coughed lightly, looking at Varric over the rim of her mug.

“A witch? Are you sure?”

“Do you know many farmer’s wives that go walking around the Kirkwall countryside in red leather corsets and dragonbone headdresses?” The dwarf grinned. “A witch, clear as you sitting in front of me now. Hawke said the woman had saved her family from the darkspawn and got them on the boat to Kirkwall, and in return she’d been asked to deliver the amulet to the Dalish clan. Don’t think she’d mentioned she’d be travelling in it.”

Naeve’s mind was racing. The witch didn’t sound like Flemeth, not the one she had known anyway. But for a mysterious witch to give this Hawke woman a powerful amulet capable of carrying her soul over the sea? And for Hawke to keep her promise and deliver it, not immediately selling it to a fence for money for food in their first few weeks here?

Varric was still talking. “There’s something about Hawke, I can’t put my finger on. She’s been in Kirkwall for over a year and she’s kept out of the corruption and stink as much as possible given her job, as well as being the only person in living memory to charm the bar staff here. I tell you, this one could be one to watch.”

“And here I thought I was the only woman in Kirkwall you had eyes for.” Naeve tried to joke, past her heart beating in her throat. An encounter with a witch, and something about her that Varric, a stupidly good judge of character, thought was special? She leaned back in her chair. She’d been a fool.

“Just out of interest, is that invitation to jump on the Deep Roads expedition with you and your new best friend still on the table?”


End file.
